


Turbulence

by anonalece



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 11:14:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3118121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonalece/pseuds/anonalece
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Turbulence is life force. It is opportunity. Let's love turbulence and use it for change." - Ramsay Clark</p>
<p>Modern AU: After a long absence, Katniss is returning to her hometown for her sister's engagement. Expecting to be confronted with a past she'd prefer stay buried considering who Prim's in-laws will be. What she doesn't expect to find herself seated next to Peeta Mellark, son of the owners of the relatively Mellark's Cafe on the flight back home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Booking tickets last minute was always hit and miss. Sometimes you found an amazing deal and sometimes you were compelled to utilize your seldom used credit card in order to afford it. Even as I gave the woman my card info over the phone, I knew it would take me months to pay off the charge - and that was before I calculated the interest. Ugh.

I am forced to admit (if only to myself) as the cab driver struggles to hoist my carry-on bag out of the yellow trunk that I may have taken my refusal to give the airline even more money to check an extra bag too far. I exchange the handle for a bill and muster up something I had hope passes for a grateful smile, but feels more like a grimace.

I feel eyes on me as I stride through the revolving glass doors and into the airport. After experiencing an unexpected and uncomfortable upgrade on a previous flight, I guess you could say I had dressed the part. My toes are pinched, my waist cinched and my hair singed and I hate the unwanted attention. I can guess what everyone waiting to check into economy thought as I breeze up to the first-class ticket counter. After all, I have spent countless times standing in that insufferable line myself, tapping my foot and envying the people who were done at the counter in no time and onto some lounge for a complementary cocktail and whatever else came with their premier status. For today, I have paid for the privilege and thus earned their scrutiny.

After getting some reading material from a newsstand and slipping it into my personal bag, I head straight for security. Being directed to the quicker, less invasive checkpoint is just another reminder of my atypical status. My attempted beeline for the coffee cart just beyond said checkpoint more closely resembles a stroll thanks to my overstuffed roller. The stress of traveling always gives me a headache and as I wait for my turn to order I fish my ibuprofen out of the huge-ass tote that is serving as my second piece of baggage for this particular trip. I crack the seal on my newly purchased water bottle and take the pills with the reassuring knowledge that they will soon be coupled with enough caffeine to stave off the headache until I can get my hands on a complementary drink of the alcoholic variety.

I carefully choose my seat at the gate: neither too close as to be presumptuous, nor too far away that I would give all the people waiting to board another reason to dislike me beyond principal. The airline desk isn’t occupied by attendants yet which means the wait will be longer than I would like, but with my back to the window overlooking the tarmac, I’m better able to observe the people that gather to await the call for boarding with me.

The call for first-class boarding pulls me away from the latest in a series of texts from various people, all of whom are checking to make sure I haven’t succumbed to a panic attack and locked myself in a bathroom stall. Again.

In a group text, I suggest that they consider sharing information the next time and inform them of my imminent boarding status before promptly turning off my phone and carelessly tossing it into my bag and making my way, albeit slowly, over to the small line of people, ticket in hand.  
By the time I manage to lug my suitcase down the loading bridge, the first-class cabin looks as full as it will be for this particular flight. I’m relieved to find myself in the only pair of seats without another passenger already seated. I pause in the isle as that relief turns to dread as I look more intently at the empty seat next to mine. Being slow to board means there’s no one readily available to help me lift my incredibly heavy carry-on bag, they’ve all settled into their own seats. I’m about to express my frustration at the flight attendant’s inability to offer her assistance, surely between us we could manage - when my bag is lifted with little apparent effort from my albeit light grasp and placed handily in the overhead compartment.

I’m more than ready to unleash the frustration that has been building within me since I had to book this damned first class ticket when I’m struck speechless. Without the bag obscuring his face, I’m left facing the most attractive man I’ve ever seen. Ever.

Something deep inside me, something I hadn’t even known was there, quakes.

He’s nearest thing to the embodiment of what I would imagine a Greek god to look like in real life as I have ever seen. Sun bronzed skin, cerulean eyes, longer and lighter blond hair than is particularly fashionable these days and upper body strength to boot.

And he’s smiling. Shit.

Not sure if I’ve missed him saying something or - heaven forbid - asking me something, I settle on the safest reply and produce a small smile of my own as I slip between him and the armrest to settle into my own seat near the window. As I do, I notice as he reaches up to secure the overhead bin that his shirt (a T-shirt with the name of a restaurant that I don’t recognize) rides up slightly revealing a flash of his toned stomach. Before my gaze can travel any lower, he’s dropping into his seat entirely too lightly for a man his size and letting his breath in a puff.

“What did you pack in that thing? It weighs a ton.”

He didn’t sound mad, just curious. But his voice ... his voice has me letting out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. His tone matches his countenance: easygoing and unperturbed by his surroundings. Why am I unable to cultivate this attitude? Wait, don’t answer that.

Instead of responding with the hostility that I’ve been told by professionals is ingrained in my personality, I manage to sound adequately contrite when I respond, “I didn’t have quite enough to justify checking another bag.” I feel the left side of my mouth pull down slightly turning my grimace into something that could pass for a frown, “Thanks for -” I gesture about his head and I’m relieved when his eyes leave mine to glance upwards.

The gravelly quality of his chuckle catches me off guard after the smooth tones of his voice. The sound makes me wonder what his voice would sound like in ... different circumstances. Ugh, I do not need to be thinking about that while gearing up for a flight home. Especially a flight back home.

Luckily the stewardess at the front of the plane picks up the microphone and begins the tried and true speech about plane safety and prevents this conversation - and, more importantly, this train of thought - from continuing. Once it’s appropriate to stop pretending to pay attention to her, I reach down and pull out the pack of chewing gum I had bought along with my periodicals and grab myself a piece before grabbing another and holding my palm out to the man sitting to my right. It takes him a long moment before he takes the proffered stick. I heard the wrapper and I notice my hand was a bit unsteady as I reached for one of my magazines.

I don’t have to look at him to know he’s watching me. He probably has a confused expression on his face; it wasn’t a new reaction, a lot of people don’t know what to make of me when they first meet me. I don’t try to be contradictory, it’s just that I’m more comfortable with silent interaction and most people felt bereft without them. I begin flipping through a tabloid that I usually only flip through at the supermarket counter, indulging my love of yellow journalism while waiting for his response. I began to linger on pages for longer periods of time as the plane taxies onto the runway. The extended silence makes it harder to distract myself with celebrity gossip. Eventually I am forced to abandon all pretense of reading and shove the mag into the seat in front of me.

God, I hate this part of flying. The taking off and the landing are always the worst parts. Mid-flight I’m able to pretend it’s the same thing as riding a bus or a train or something other than this death trap. Usually the passenger next to me helps by talking annoyingly throughout the horrific experience. But not today. The man sitting next to me today has the decency to keep his mouth shut. Damn it.

Closing my eyes I focus on breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth. I don’t think this technique is working. Unconsciously my hands grab the armrests as I feel the plane begin to accelerate. My fingers are numb enough it takes a crucial moment for me to realize that my seat mate has managed to pry my fingers off the armrest between us and entwine our fingers. I’m momentarily startled out of my fear enough to glare over at him, only he’s not looking at me. His eyes are closed like mine just were and his head is tilted back against his seat. Only his clenched jaw gives his anxiety away. That and the way his hand spasms around mine as I feel the familiar lurch of the plane leaving the ground. I look to see that his hand has pulled mine to rest on his leg. The digits in my right hand are regaining their ability to feel and I hesitate a moment before returning the pressure with a slight squeeze of my own.

Warmth emanates from that spot where my hand is trapped against his thigh and while I know that this isn’t the time or the place, I can’t help taking the opportunity to look him over without his knowledge. There’s a light dusting of freckles across his flushed cheeks. His eyelashes are impossibly long. The ends of his hair curl ever so slightly. The unsteady movement of the Adam’s apple in his thick neck might be the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. His chest is broad and looks to be made of solid muscle if what’s peeking out under his short sleeves and his grip are anything to go by. Well, fuck me.

Looking out the window for something to do, I realize that the plane has pulled far enough away from the ground that it’s almost leveled out and I was too busy checking out the guy beside me to notice. It wasn’t the usual kind of distraction, but it had worked.

I just have to somehow get through this flight without doing or saying something completely embarrassing and I can go back to normal. I can go back to being my fearlessly independent self. I am about to begin the mantra that helps center me in the present (a technique that my doctor and I came up with to help handle bursts of emotions until I had time to process them fully that I find extremely effective) when I feel the hand around mine loosen. Startled by the lack of pressure, I swivel in my seat to look at him and I see understanding in his eyes. “I’ve always hated that part,” he admits clasping my hand tightly once more before gently extricating his fingers from mine and placing each in our own laps.

By way of response I offer up a feeble smile and quiet, “Yeah, me too.”

“I’m Peeta.”

I look over at his proffered hand, it’s not the one that moments ago I had been holding onto for dear life, but it looks just as capable of sending my mind wandering. Yup, as I clasp it in mine I know I’m in trouble. “Katniss.”

He’s mirrored my position and angled his body toward me. Despite myself, I want to keep talking to him.

“So, Katniss, what is important enough to get you to use this type of conveyance?”

A smile appears unbidden on my face. “My sister.” By the time I’ve related the story about her boyfriend asking me to be there when he proposed because he knew it was a moment that Prim would want to share with me, my smile has grown into a full-fledged grin. As I try to temper it, I refocus on the man beside me I see a look of regret flicker across his face and I wonder if he has siblings. Instead of asking about it I echo his initial question.

Peeta’s smile tightens and if it weren’t for my rampant curiosity I would probably feel bad about asking. “I’ve got family stuff too, not the good kind like yours though.”  
“You’re not from there, are you? Only it’s a small town and I could swear that-”

“Oh no, I’ve never lived there. My parents moved there after I went off to school. Empty nesters, you know? Left their business to my oldest brother and opened a smaller chain store on main street.”

I take half a second to consider the last place that showed up new on main before I blurt it out, “Mellarks??” His head hasn’t finished its first nod before I continue, “That place is great! Wait,” I go as far as holding my hand out in the universal stop gesture to prevent him interrupting me, “Those are your parents? Huh.” This time his nod is accompanied by another rough chuckle, my disbelief followed by ready acceptance amusing him. I feel like I have some backtracking to do, so I say, “No, it’s a cool place. I just didn’t see that coming, you know?”

“No,” it’s his turn to do the stop gesture so he can catch his breath, “That’s understandable. I’ve only been there a handful of times to help out. That opening weekend?” He says it like a question and it’s my turn to nod, “I worked the back for them, so they could meet the customers and start building those relationships, you know?”

“That makes sense.” There’s a natural lull in the conversation and before it can become awkward I ask, “Are you going to be helping out this time? While you’re in town, I mean?”

“Yeah. They’re letting me try out a few new items on their customers, so it should be fun.”

The look on his face is so mischievous that when he doesn’t explain further I’m forced to prompt him, “So, in real life, you’re some kind of chef extraordinaire?”

“Aspiring to be, yeah,” he looks a little sheepish admitting it. “I work underneath some amazing chefs, but I have a long way to go. I just want to perfect each dish before presenting it to them for the restaurant menu.”

“By using the unsuspecting people of my town as ginny pigs? You do know that their palettes won’t be nearly as sophisticated as us city folk, right?” He nods. “Good, otherwise you’d have a revolt on your hands.” We are sharing our amusement at the townspeople when a stewardess rolls by our row offering drinks.

Not a half hour ago, the prospect of a stiff drink was the only thing keeping my sanity intact, but now I worry what could happen with the man next to me if I were under the influence of altitude plus alcohol. Instead, I pour my soda bit by bit into my glass (a real glass, not the plastic variety available in coach) and find myself talking to Peeta the way I would when catching up with an old friend you haven’t seen in a while. For everything I reveal, he divulges something about himself.  
The ebb and flow of our conversation carries us through the flight and in no time the light dings on indicating that it’s time to buckle our seat belts and prepare for landing. Peeta offers me his hand as the plane begins to shake and I take it without looking away from his eyes.

I’ve never dreaded landing the way I do at this moment.

All too soon, I’m watching him haul our carry-ons down from overhead and exiting the loading bridge. We make our way through the airport slowly, thanks to my overstuffed bag and his insistence that he pull it for me. I can’t help but think that if he were walking me to my front door I’d be fiddling with my keys right about now.  
I know that projecting confidence when in reality all my nerves prickling will help me appear calm, so I straighten my shoulders and purposely place my hand on top of his as I reach to take my bag’s handle from him. Pretty soon we’re standing in the middle of the concourse, facing each other and we both ignore the grumbles of the people following us at our sudden stop.

Neither of us speak, for a moment, we just look at each other. I feel my resolve shake ever so slightly. I feel my chin lift and my eyes narrow and I’m back in control. “So,” I pause for effect, “When I come in tomorrow morning, you should ask me for my number.”

The way his shoulder relax and that smile appears tells me that I made the right choice. But I must look pleased with myself because he asks with a teasing lilt to his voice, “Tomorrow, huh?”

Instead of snapping like I usually would, I shrug and go along with it, “Hmm, I thought a pastry and a mimosa would be the perfect way to start celebrating Prim’s engagement. Don’t you think so?” I think I manage to sound pretty confident considering the nonexistent amount of experience I’ve had in these situations.

However, when I meet his eyes fully I know the uncertainty I feel has shown somehow because he’s not teasing me when he says, “Seeing you tomorrow sounds perfect.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU: After a long absence, Katniss is returning to her hometown for her sister's engagement. Expecting to be confronted with a past she'd prefer stay buried considering who Prim's in-laws will be. What she doesn't expect to find herself seated next to Peeta Mellark, son of the owners of the relatively Mellark's Cafe on the flight back home.

It was only a matter of time, but that doesn’t make the reality of the fact any easier to swallow. My little sister is all grown up. 

As if Prim graduating from college just a short while ago weren’t hard enough, her abandoning our family of two by joining the Hawthorne clan - not to mention knowing that a nuclear family of her own with Rory will soon follow - is turning out to be more than I can handle. Even with the advance warning about the proposal and being here for the specific purpose of supporting Prim in whatever decision she chose to make (which hasn’t been a decision in a really long time), all I want to do is leave. 

However, despite my usual social incompetence, even I know it’s too soon to consider leaving. That and Prim would kill me for ditching before she could get me alone. I see the euphoric smile fade and be replaced by one that looks genuine but that doesn’t reach her eyes. Those beautiful blue eyes that keep flitting back to where I am nursing my second drink of the night. 

I finished my first shortly after arriving at the graduation turned impromptu engagement party being hosted by Prim’s future in-laws. Our families have always been close but I’ve never felt so uncomfortable in this house as I do at this moment. I have avoided being inside this house since before I left town over four years ago. It’s weird for everything to feel so familiar and yet feel so out of place. Not much has changed about the old house; there are a few photographs I don’t immediately recognize and the couch has been upgraded since there are no longer any teenage boys living here. But overall, it is still the same place I had spent so much time in during high school, when it had felt more like home than my actual house did at the time. 

At this moment, I know how many steps it would take me to sneak out the back door and the relative distance from there to the rental car parked up the block. I used to park there when I snuck out of the house to meet my ... 

“Gale!” The squeal from the youngest Hawthorne, the only one still living at home, announces the arrival of the eldest. Aside from the happiness on his face, he looks much like he did the last time I saw him: tall, dark and handsome, only his olive complexion keeps him from fulfilling the cliché completely. As if he weren’t attractive enough already. Damn it. 

I grab my cell phone out of my back pocket and check the time. Unfortunately it hasn’t been that long since I last checked it and definitely not long enough for me to be able to leave. Quickly finishing the drink in front of me, I turn to signal for another and duck my head. If I have luck on my side, by the time he apologizes for being late, then congratulates the happy couple and pays his respects to his mother, I’ll be done planning my escape and already on the move before he finds out I was here. 

Despite knowing that I might have to sit around in the car before I’ll be able to actually drive anywhere, I take a gulp of my drink as soon as it’s set in front of me. It’s a nervous habit of mine, but it helps steady me. I make sure to turn slowly as I survey the room and weigh my options, my eyes darting frequently back to where I see Rory greet his brother enthusiastically. Now would be the perfect time to escape. 

But even as the thought enters my head, my eyes meet Prim’s as she’s embraced by her soon to be brother in-law and I know I’ll have to wait and reassure her that I’m okay. And I am. Really. 

Yes, the pain from the past follows me like a shadow, never vanishing completely nor allowing me forget the havoc that another person can wreak on my life if I ever allow someone to get that close to me again. And yes, that one encounter with romantic heartbreak taught me to avoid letting my emotions determine the course of my relationships. It was against my better judgement to get involved with him initially and, although it felt crippling when it ended, I took some solace knowing that I was proven right. After I repaired the breaks in my heart and pride (with a little, okay, a lot of help from my doctor), I admitted to myself (and said doc) that ending things was the right decision for both of us. 

Looking back, I just wish I had been the one to make it. 

I stare at the bottom of my glass, intentionally loosen my grip on it and focus on breathing slowly and deeply through my nose. No, I wouldn’t change what happened, but it still stings. Even after all this time, I avoid thinking about it as much as possible. Unfortunately, being back - specifically for this occasion - means confronting a past I would prefer stay buried where I’d put it a long time ago. Sadly, I know this to be a pipe dream. Now that our families are going to be tied together officially (as they were always intended to be, only a little later than had been anticipated), I know that I’ll have to deal with him sooner or later. 

“Hello, Catnip.” 

Sooner, then. I close my eyes and collect my thoughts. I had spent nearly every session prior to this trip preparing for this moment. However, nothing could have prepared me for the way he is looking at me. It’s a look I recognize from ... before. 

“Gale.” I’m careful to keep my tone brusque, I’m not interested in inviting this particular conversation. There was a time when he would have known what my tone meant, but he is either purposefully ignoring it or he’s actually forgotten how to read me. I don’t take the time to analyze which one upsets me more. Instead I latch onto my ignited ire and remind myself that I shouldn’t care either way.

He’s giving me a tentative smile, “It’s been a long time, Cat-”

I put my hand up to stop him and shake my head, “Don’t call me that, Gale. You gave upthat right a long time ago and I’m not that girl anymore.” He drops my gaze and I don’t even feel bad.

“Neither of us are the same.” He says with a sigh and I grit my teeth, refusing to acknowledge the regret in his voice. It is a regret we share, another thing that ties us together.

“Gale,” my eyes flee the moment his meet mine, instead taking another look around the room and I’m unsettled by the number of people I see watching us. Some are outright staring and others, like my sister, keep glancing back every few seconds. “I’m not going to rehash our past in a room full of people who already know entirely too much about it.” 

This time, the way that everyone is purposely avoiding looking directly at us when he glances around tells Gale all he needs to know. This is neither the time nor the place, but just in case I make sure to drive the point home by adding, “This night is about Rory.” I pause for effect. “And Prim. It’s about them tonight. We will talk, Gale, just not right now.” Waiting for his gaze to return to mine is an exercise in my patience, but it’s worth the understanding I see there. “Okay?” He nods and he’s smart enough to let me pass by without further comment. 

As I loiter, waiting for Prim to break away from the congratulatory circuit long enough for me to tell her I’m leaving, I finish my drink. Yup, I’ll be hanging out in my car for a while before heading back to her apartment. I’m concentrating on maintaining enough distance from people that surround me so that none of us feel obligated to start what I’m sure will be a very awkward conversation. 

Ours isn’t a truly small town, but it’s close enough. I recognize nearly everyone in the room by sight and those I don’t must be college friends of the happy couple because why anyone would choose to relocate here of all places isn’t something I have a interest in comprehending. It’s a run of the mill town with a population smaller than most. There are enough people to justify two high schools. However, the district line cuts straight down the middle and prejudice unfortunately, goes along with it. It goes beyond the typical sports team rivalry, creating an alternate class system that kids learn throughout school and carry into adulthood. 

I wasn’t truly aware of the division until I returned from the outside world. Distance (along with professional help) allowed me to gain perspective about a lot of things, more than just my failed relationship, including the small minded people living in my hometown. At first, my absence was easily explained by the breakup, but I preferred to invite Prim to the city as opposed to coming back to a place that, like this room, felt stifling. 

An apologetic smile lingers on Prim’s face as she detaches herself from the latest in a long line of well-wishers and begins making her way over to me. Her visible concern is not going to keep me around any longer. Trying to cut her short, I say, “Prim, it’s fine.” Her lips purse. I try again. “Now that we’ve broken the ice, we’ll be able to clear the air.”

She raises an eyebrow delicately and I aim my grimace at the floor. “You know us, Prim, we never did anything quietly.” This time both eyebrows shoot straight for her hairline. In seconds we’re both biting our lips in an attempt to keep from laughing. That statement was true in more ways than I had intended it. “No, I just meant,” I take a second to regain my breath, “You know how easily we can set each other off. I just think it would be better if we spoke privately about everything.”

Calming down herself, Prim places a hand on my arm and I see the look of concern return to her face. “So, I take it that you’re going to head home?” I nod. “Are you okay to drive?” I nod again. It’s not a lie; I’ll need some time in my car, but I will be safe to drive eventually. “Alright. Depending on when things wind down here, I might just stay and meet you in the morning.”

After we decide on a time (not too early, but still in time to order breakfast), we share a tight squeeze before I give her a slight push in the direction of her fiancé. God, it sounds weird to even think that, let alone for it to be true. 

I pointedly avoid making eye contact with anyone on my way out. That last drink has hit my system and I somehow don’t trust my already immense lack of tact to help me were I to encounter someone intent on stopping my progress. I’m pretty sure I would cause the scene I’ve been trying to avoid if that person were Gale. 

A cold breeze stings my face as I exit the house. Somehow, I get off the back porch and through the backyard and it’s not until I’m halfway to my car that I stop. I hunch over, place my hands on my knees and try to focus on my breathing technique, but it’s not working. I’m too overwhelmed. God, I didn’t think being back here would be this hard! I thought I was prepared for this: for seeing Gale and beginning to lose my sister. Now, half-collapsed on the sidewalk, I’m starting to believe what Dr. Aurelius told me. 

Some things you just can’t prepare for. 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU: After a long absence, Katniss is returning to her hometown for her sister's engagement. Expecting to be confronted with a past she'd prefer stay buried considering who Prim's in-laws will be. What she doesn't expect to find herself seated next to Peeta Mellark, son of the owners of the relatively Mellark's Cafe on the flight back home.

I’m staring out the windshield when I realize I’m late. I can see down Main Street the building on the corner where I was supposed to meet Prim ten minutes ago. This is an odd circumstance for me. I’m not usually late. Ever. My doctor suspects this relates to my need to control as many elements of my environment as possible. I expect I’ll have to explain this lapse in punctuality to Prim. She knows that I consider on time to mean early, so my being actually late is going to raise questions. 

Once I manage to release my grip on my steering wheel and get out of the car, I feel at a loss. I’m nervous. I can admit that to myself. Not like it would be hard for anyone to spot my nerves with my hands clenched into balls at my sides. I take a moment, close my eyes and, as I take a deep breath, I tell my shoulders to drop and my grip to loosen. Another deep breath and I’m able to propel myself towards the café on the corner.

This was much simpler at the airport. Because I didn’t want to lose the camaraderie Peeta and I built during the flight, it had given me something easy to focus on instead of the trepidation I was feeling. Now, standing outside the bay windows of Mellarks, I realize that my fear of the unknown is somehow greater than the worry I feel over facing my past.  

Through the glass, I see him. He’s behind the counter, simultaneously manning the display case and the register while effortlessly interacting with people I’ve felt uncomfortable with my whole life. Movement inside the café takes my attention away from his smiling face; it’s Prim. Getting here first, she’s nabbed a prime table near the window. The way she’s waving, it’s a wonder that everyone in the place isn’t gaping at me. Only, when I glance back at Peeta, I am transfixed. He’s caught sight of me standing outside fiddling with the zipper on my jacket, yet another manifestation of the tension I’m feeling. My hands freeze as I see his smile broaden and his eyes glint with interest. I have to break the connection before an idiotic smile can make it’s way onto my own face.

I enter the cafe and I duck my head a little farther as the bell above the door tinkles. The smile that threatened when I first saw Peeta through the window finally makes its way to my lips when Prim rushes at me with her arms spread wide. Her embrace is familiar and I feel my shoulders relax even as she pulls away. Prim holds my hand as she leads the way through the maze of tables back towards the window. 

Just like the sense I had on the plane, I feel Peeta’s eyes tracking my movement across the floor. When I glance back, he’s distracted by a customer. Trusting my sister to guide me through the twists and turns of tables, I take a moment to admire the way his jaw clenches as he concentrates on filling an order. My hip rams into the corner of our table causing the cutlery to rattle and the water in our glasses to slosh dangerously. I take my seat as quickly as I can to avoid any added attention. 

Thankfully, Prim makes a quip about my clumsiness and attributes the blush I feel creeping up my neck to mere embarrassment.

Once we’re both settled, Prim asks, “What happened?” She continues before I have a chance to say anything, “And don’t say traffic. That only works when I’m at your place.” It’s true that when she visits me traffic inevitably spoils at least one set of plans, much to Prim’s consternation.

“I just ... uh, I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.” I’m hoping that my history of restless nights whenever I’ve been home in recent years will back up this excuse in her mind.  I release the breath I’ve been holding as Prim’s attention moves to the menu laying on the table in front of her. Picking up my own, I begin to read while asking, “What’s good here?” I’ve never actually eaten here. I’ve just grabbed something to enjoy on the trip home. 

It’s hard to pinpoint the exact moment that term began referring to the city instead of this town. It was a change that happened without my permission. I didn’t plan on making a new home for myself; it just kind of crept up on me. I was thankful for the privacy to lick my wounds and the distraction school provided to focus on rather than the suffocating heartache that I couldn’t seem to escape. I think it was later, after I came back to sell the house, when I came to the realization that the only connection I still have to this place is Prim, this place where I spent most of my life and this place where I no longer belong. It’s not a fact that I’m entirely comfortable with. 

Prim’s sudden silence pulls me from the depressing direction of my thoughts. Looking up from my menu, my attention bounces quickly away from my sister to the waiter that had appeared beside our table. The juxtaposition of his imposing physicality and the fragile stemware trapped in his fists is striking.

Before either of us can utter a word, he says, “I hear congratulations are in order,” he carefully places the brimming glasses in front of us. “Please enjoy these on the house. I’ll give you some more time with the menus and be back to take your order soon.” 

I catch the thumbs up that the waiter sends in the direction of the cash register as he retreats and I purposefully avoid letting myself look at its intended target, sure that I would be unable to keep my cool. Instead, I return my eyes to the table and carefully raise my glass and summon an easy smile to my face, “To your engagement!” I’m relieved to see the sparkle return to Prim’s eyes as our glasses chink, hopeful that she’ll attribute this benevolent gesture to living in a small town.

I avoid the probing look she aims at me a moment later by casting my eyes downward to consult my menu. The silence reaches across the small table, slowly closing in around me and the weight of her stare is piercing through my attempt to inspect the food options available to us. 

“Can we at least order before you bring it up?” I don’t look up. It’s direct and to the point. There is no room for confusion. We both know what needs to be discussed. The reality of our situation has changed so completely that to ignore it would be foolish in the extreme. It’s bigger than just us anymore. 

I take a fortifying sip of my mimosa after ordering a riff on the traditional eggs benedict (this one boasts the introduction of wilted spinach and a slice of locally grown tomato) and wait for Prim’s opening question. She surprises me by asking, “So, how was the rest of your night?” 

Well, that’s frustratingly vague. I shouldn’t be surprised that Prim chooses a question that leaves me off balance, she’s only been wheedling information out of me the longest of anyone. Of course she would come up with an original way of approaching this conversation. 

“Fine. I, uh, took some time to think things through before heading back to your apartment. I didn’t want to drive upset, you know?” It’s not so far from the truth that I have to feel guilty for misleading Prim. 

I was upset, but the alcohol was the factor keeping me from leaving while also providing me with the opportunity to work through everything I felt during that encounter with Gale, really since I set foot into the Hawthorne’s house - fuck, out of the airport! Who am I kidding? The idea of this trip got me emotional long before it was close to a reality.

However, I do feel guilty for the look of concern I’m getting used to seeing fall across that pretty face of hers. 

“I thought you said it was okay now that you guys had gotten the initial meeting out of the way?”

My grimace is instantaneous. “That could have gone better,” I admit reluctantly. I give a shrug in response to her accusatory look. She would think I was the reason for how that turned out and, given our history, I can’t really blame her.

“Do you think that you can move past this impasse?” I know that my nod isn’t going to convince her. “You guys have let this fester for years and I’m supposed to believe you’ll be able to work it out in time for the wedding?”

“You’re not planning on eloping, are you?” I give her the hardest look I can muster and it doesn’t take long for her to crack a smile. Mustering my bravado, I say, “I knew you couldn’t do that to Hazelle, not with her being Rory’s mother and all.”

“If only because neither of us would know how to tell her,” Prim says joining in my laughter despite the thought being less than amusing. I would have considered this option myself before discounting it for this very reason. She sobers before saying, “No, I just meant that you’re both going to be in the wedding party and we can’t have any fighting on the big day.”

It takes me a moment to realize what she’s saying. When I’m unable to find my voice, Prim smiles and continues, “Katniss, will you be my maid of honor?” 

“I just always thought you would ask someone else when the time came. Someone who knows you both equally - someone who hasn’t been mostly absent for the last few years - to stand up with you.” Hearing the words come out of my mouth, I know I’m an idiot. I don’t have to see the disappointment on her face to know that I’ve really stuck my foot in it this time. 

I’m out of my chair and kneeling beside her before the first tear falls.

I clutch at her hands helplessly, stammering something that could never make up for failing to accept the position upon her offer in the first place. I’m not sure what words I utter, but they must do the trick because the next thing I know Prim has my face between her hands as she says, “Katniss, you’re the only person I need to be there.” Her smile is sad and my relief feels misplaced by comparison. “You’re my sister,” she adds, as if I didn’t know that, “There couldn’t be a wedding without you.”

Our embrace is interrupted by a throat clearing directly behind me. After returning to my chair, I dry my eyes with my napkin, place the cloth in my lap and clear my throat. I direct an uncomfortable smile in his direction when he places a plate of steaming food on the table in front of me. 

“Can I get you anything else?” I shake my head slightly and reply in the negative. When Prim softly echoes the sentiment, the waiter smiles in a way that looks kind of familiar before telling us to enjoy our meal. I share a sentimental smile with my sister before picking up my fork and digging into my food. My first bite muffles the embarrassing sound I make in response to the flavors that erupt in my mouth. It’s unlike any eggs benedict I’ve ever tasted. I didn’t think that adding a few ingredients could make this big of a difference, but I’m sure it has somehow blown my taste buds for anything less. Damn.

Prim laughs good-naturedly at my obvious enjoyment, “I told you it was good.” She’s kind enough to wait until I make a good dent in my dish before she brings up the sticking point. “Rory asked Gale to be his best man last night.” She’s wary of my reaction; I can tell by the tone of her voice. I concentrate on swallowing the lump that appears in my throat before meeting her concerned gaze.

“There was never any doubt of that.” My flat tone does little to dismiss her distress and I can’t muster my usual bravado after being faced with this news. I always knew that handling the situation with Gale was going to be difficult; being paired together in the wedding party adds a certain amount of pressure. As though we need it. Changing tact, I try for matter of fact when I say, “I think it’s about time, don’t you?”

“You know very well that I do.” At best, the look she’s giving me now is downright accusatory. Yes, she has in fact made her viewpoint very clear. 

I split town almost immediately after Gale broke up with me and Prim had come tearing after me insisting that we could work things out and manage the distance. Was I really going to let my oldest friend disappear from my life without a fight? And if I really no longer had romantic feelings for him, what was the harm in clearing the air and potentially get my oldest friend back? These arguments all failed to induce me into this confrontation in the past, but it is imminent and I know there is a way around it now.

The sound of my sister saying my name brings me back to the present and I’m careful to keep my expression as stoic as possible as she continues, “I’m not asking for a miracle and I don’t expect it to happen overnight. I just want the two of you to be civil with one another and not let your discomfort show in the wedding photos.” Prim smiles in response to my eye roll. “Look,” she says with a sigh, “I’m going over there after this. Can I tell Gale to call you? I don’t want me and Rory to get stuck in the middle unless you guys need a mediator ...” Her voice trails off at the end, demanding a response. 

“Yeah, that’s fine.” I give her a tight smile, trying to think of a way to lighten the mood of our conversation. “Don’t you think I did a pretty good job of being civil last night? I refrained from yelling and we both walked away unscathed.” Prim chuckles reluctantly at that, having been a witness to a good number of fights over the course of our friendship and further romantic relationship, I’m pretty sure nothing would surprise her given the clear animosity between us now. I reach across the table and cover her hand with my own, “Prim, I know it’s important to you and I’ll do everything in my power to make it happen.”

That doesn’t mean that Gale will be entirely agreeable, but I can promise to do my utmost to get him to fall in line. This is why, after thanking me for being the bigger person, Prim says, “I’ll have Rory talk to him.”

With that subject out of the way, we return to our lukewarm food swapping stories about the various cases we’ve been dealing with recently. Before long our waiter is placing our check on the table and expressing a hope to see us again soon.

“Is it that late already?” Prim exclaims, “I’m late to meet Rory. We’re talking wedding plans. Apparently he’s picked up some magazines.” She gives me a skeptical look because we both know he’s bought out the store of every bridal rag available. “Can you get this one? I’ll get the next, I promise.”

With a laugh and a shooing gesture I send Prim on her way. Grabbing the billfold off the table, I snatch my purse off the ground and stand. I quickly unzip my jacket to stave off the heat I can feel making its way up toward my cheeks. It takes me a moment to gather the confidence that allowed me to be bold yesterday before I turn and begin retracing the path Prim led me down earlier, diverging from it to approach the counter. 

I’m not the only person queuing to settle their account with this fine establishment, but I am the one that Peeta’s been expecting. He notices my approach and his easygoing smile intensifies to something close to blinding. He’s careful to redirect his attention to the woman in front of him; I recognize the aging high school teacher I’d seen in the halls during my time here, but I’m surprised by the blush I glimpse on her departure. Apparently, I’m not the only one susceptible to his abundant charm. I’m not sure exactly what that says about me, but I push that thought aside as I take the last step and find myself standing directly across from him. 

He looks like the same guy that I met on the plane and the widening grin I’m facing is reminiscent of the look he gave me before we parted ways in the terminal. I remind my nerves that I liked the guy from the flight, that I was the one who engineered this moment in the first place. It’s that fact alone that brings me here this morning. Unless work related, and unbeknownst to the man in front of me, it’s rare for me to actively, let alone willingly, pursue anyone. 

“Hi.” There’s an airy quality to my voice that bothers me. It shows an amount of vulnerability that I didn’t know I still had the capacity for, something I was sure I had lost a long time ago. I clear my throat apprehensively before I inquire, “Busy morning?”

“I couldn’t tell you, it being my first day and all,” Peeta’s smile widens impossibly. That’s right, he had mentioned working the back on his past visits. He waits for my eye roll to be complete before continuing, “I do know that my morning just got better.”

The blush I’ve managed to subdue threatens to return in full force, but I try to focus on our conversation and not the wink he just threw me. “Thank you,” I see him start to puff up, “You are the one that sent over those mimosas, right?” I’m careful to keep only the slightest hint of misgiving in my tone, just enough to make my teasing clear, but not enough to wipe the smile off his face. 

Peeta looks sheepish as he shrugs in response. “I, uh, you mentioned them yesterday ...” His voice trails to a stop and he breaks our eye contact as he rubs the back of his neck, a classic sign of nerves. 

“Well, it means a lot.” When he looks up at me, I tilt my head and give him a meaningful look, “Really.” Peeta’s relief is palpable and yet, he modestly claims that it’s the least that he could do. “Well, you didn’t have to and it means all the more for being unexpected.”

He gives me a conspiratorial look, “I’m not sure how much that had to do with the drinks or the engagement.”

“You might be right,” I concede the point with a dry chuckle and I’m the one relieved when his easy laugh joins the sound of my own amusement. “In any case, thank you for your help in making the morning a success.” 

Peeta makes a slight bend at the waist, but is thwarted by the countertop rather than achieving an outright bow. True laughter escapes me at the awkward shuffle step that he takes to recover and - although I try to stifle it - there isn’t enough time to reassure him before the swinging door to the back opens and claims Peeta’s attention. 

“A hand?” I barely have time to recognize my waiter before he’s disappeared again. I wave Peeta on and I try not to take it personally when he looks more relieved than reluctant to leave. 

When Peeta reappears in front of me, I smile and hand him the check to give him something to do. I gesture to the glass jar full of business cards and continue as though I didn’t just injure his pride, “What happens if my card gets drawn?” 

He doesn’t even look up from the register as he makes my change, “The winner of the raffle gets a gift certificate,” he says distractedly, “I’m not sure of the value, it’s something that my parents started. Something to do with getting to know local businesses and becoming a part of the community.”

“Okay,” the word becomes drawn out as my hand begins to search for my wallet and in short order I’m plunking the bag down on the counter between us. I look away from the chiseled profile in front of me and begin to physically search the bag for the blasted thing. “Ah hah!” I exclaim as I emerge victorious, my card tin in hand. I look over to see Peeta shaking his head at me. I shrug helplessly in response to his obvious distain for women and their handbags. I would usually agree with him, but while traveling you’re forced to make do with what you’ve brought.

Extracting two of my business cards, I grab a pen from the cup by the register, explaining, “I didn’t think I would need these on this trip, but turns out that it never hurts to be prepared.” When I’m done writing, I make a show of separating the pieces of card stock, popping one into the jar and, holding up the other, I give the card a little wave, “This one is for you.” I hold it out toward him, “I put my personal cell on the back.” This prompts him to reach for the card, I smile and make sure it’s just out of reach, “Please, only take this if you’re planning on using it.” 

Peeta looks me in the eye for a long moment before leaning further forward and plucking the little piece of paper that holds so much more than my phone number. I think he’s picked up on the fact that, for me, this is about more than giving him my number. I refuse to let the tilt of his head become a full-fledged question, saying, “I fly out Thursday, you should use that before then.” 

I know that remaining silent will draw the answer from him, but the time it takes for Peeta to answer feels like forever. “Okay, I will,” he nods as he says it. It’s not until I’m standing outside looking back into the café through the window that I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. 

Looking inside one last time, I see Peeta examining my card. I quickly zip my jacket to combat a sudden chill before I start walking the short distance to my car. I look back at the corner building before climbing in. Whatever I thought would happen on this trip, I didn’t plan for this. I just hope I can handle what’s coming next.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU: After a long absence, Katniss is returning to her hometown for her sister's engagement. Expecting to be confronted with a past she'd prefer stay buried considering who Prim's in-laws will be. What she doesn't expect to find herself seated next to Peeta Mellark, son of the owners of the relatively Mellark's Cafe on the flight back home.

“If you don’t stop fidgeting, it’s going to be your own fault when I poke you in the eye with this thing,” Prim says, gesturing wildly with the mascara wand in her hand. She resumes applying mascara to my eyelashes when I manage to sit still and resume staring up at the ceiling. “I don’t know why you’re nervous. You’re just meeting Madge.”

She’s right. Madge is a friend from high school that I’ve stayed in touch with over the years. We typically try to get together whenever I come back to town and since she hadn’t been able to attend Prim’s party due to conflicting plans, we’re meeting for a drink tonight instead. My sister wanted to tag along, but her future mother-in-law has commandeered her evening to begin wedding planning; instead she insisted on doing my makeup the way she often does when we spend a night out on her visits to the city. 

My typical beauty routine is simple: concealer to hide evidence of the all too typical late nights at work, a swipe of blush to fight my pallor and a quick coat of mascara are usually all the steps I need to look presentable. Unless my boss has me accompany him to make an appearance with a client, I don’t usually bother to try anything more elaborate. Unlike my sister and most teenage girls, I didn’t have the time to acquire the skills of makeup application in my teens; I had more important things to worry about. That’s part of the reason I’m letting my sister doll me up for simple drinks with an old friend because I managed to use the low-key nature of tonight’s plans to talk her out of making me wear one of the ridiculous outfits she had initially suggested. Instead, I convinced her that I would be better off dressing up my dark wash jeans and v-neck t-shirt with the suit jacket and heels I wore on the flight here.

“You’re lucky the eyeshadow’s dark, it’ll hide those little dots,” Prim informs me as she plunges the mascara wand into its tube a final time before swiping some additional pewter shadow across my lids. She takes a step back to survey her handiwork. “Not too shabby,” she announces with a grin. 

I’m relieved to see that Prim has used a light hand not only with the monochromatic shadow and liner, but with the blush and lip gloss as well. She’s given me a smoky eye I could never have managed myself, a slight flush and a naturally pink pout. Gathering my hair at the nape of my neck, I give it a good twist before securing it with a band. Prim comes up beside me and fusses over the placement of my long fringe and tucks the pieces of my hair that don’t quite reach my less than perfect bun behind my ears. I find her gaze in the mirror and she smiles proudly, “Not shabby at all.” 

She’s right, of course. I usually draw a certain amount of interest when I’m in town, though I can’t be sure if it’s my appearance or mere presence that attracts attention when I enter The Hob half an hour later. I ignore the individual stares; instead I claim the first empty booth I come across and make sure to take the side facing the entrance so that I can spot Madge when she arrives.

I’m glad that they’ve dimmed the lights for the evening, it allows me to blend in with my own dark, oil stained wooden bench. I’m separated from the bar by a series of low tables and captain’s chairs all stained the same dark color. To keep it easy to clean, the floor is bare concrete and aside from the odd neon sign and a few dartboards in the back corner, the walls are blessedly bare. I enjoy these unassuming qualities of The Hob; though lacking somewhat in character, the place manages to balance a fine line between alienation and anonymity. Unlike the atmosphere that often gets forced upon me at home, there are no pretensions here. The only thing required is that you pay your tab, which is the only resemblance between other establishments and The Hob.

The first thing I spot is my friend’s hair shining through the dimly lit room like a halo. As I predicted, Madge is wearing her hair free flowing over her shoulders, but she’s changed the style since the last time I was in town. If the lighting were better in here, I might be able to distinguish the equally expected variation in color. Whereas I’ve never had the inclination to change much about my hair over the years, my friend started changing her hair color as soon as she could convince a clerk she was old enough to buy the box herself and she was constantly getting it professionally done while we were roommates during college. I never know what I’ll to see when we get together; but, unlike her hairstyle, the smile seeing her brings to my face is expected.

Loosening our hold on each other from our initial embrace, we remain somewhat intertwined and grin at each other. I lift my hand up, flip her shorter locks over her shoulder and raise an eyebrow. She responds with a shrug. I shake my head, take a step to the side and point her in the direction of our booth asking, “First round’s on me, you want the usual?” At her nod, I make my way between tables towards the bar and give the hem of my shirt a quick tug,bringing its neckline down a couple of inches because the way to get a bartender’s attention is the same whether you’re here or in the city.

I slip between customers occupying two of the tall stools that line the front side of the bar and as I grab some cash from the pocket of my jacket, I lean forward to give the man behind the bar a chance to ogle my cleavage. I rest my forearm on the bar, cash in hand and assume a bored expression as I wait. 

“Katniss Everdeen as I live and breathe.”

My attention snaps back to the bartender. “Thresh Williams tending bar back in his home town; this one I did not see coming.” Thresh chuckles and absentmindedly wipes down the top of the bar, not bothering to respond. He knows that I could ask anyone and discover the truth; this being a sports obsessed small town, news like the return of a former football star who left with a full ride and dreams of turning pro to tend bar at a local haunt wasn’t likely to have been overlooked by the local gossips. “Two snakebites, please, barkeep.”

He shakes his head, shifts down to the nearby tap and nods down the bar to my left as he begins to fill my order asking, “You here with my buddy over there?” I lean forward and catalog the people occupying the bar. It’s not until both my forearms rest on it that I spot him. I jerk back before he can spot me and shake my head vehemently in response to the question, not trusting my voice to remain steady just now. Even though I had told Prim to have him call me, I haven’t been able to prepare and therefore, at this particular moment, I’m not ready to see Gale just yet. If Thresh noticed the way that my muscles have seized with tension, he doesn’t mention it. “Then you must be here with blondie over there.” I follow his gaze over my shoulder back where I can see Madge smiling down at her phone, practically vibrating with excitement. 

I’m nodding as I turn back toward him. He sets the glasses filled with half cider and half stout in front of me and I exchange them for the bill in my hand, waving him off before grabbing the glasses off the bar, “Keep it.” I catch a glimpse of his brilliant white teeth that stand out against his dark skin for a moment before I turn away. 

Only then do I realize that the bar has become significantly more crowded in the time it’s taken to get two measly drinks. I’m only able to manage a few steps before I’m being jostled by the crowd. “Dammit.” The word escapes my mouth after my attempt to avoid one collision causes me to be the one at fault for another. Even as a set of hands come to stabilize my body, I feel liquid seep under my fingers and it’s all I can do to keep a hold of the glasses. 

Only once I’m positive that I won’t in fact drop the pints, I finally acknowledge the warmth surrounding my waist. Any chance of my apologizing to the guy for my literal misstep goes out the window. My hands might be preoccupied, but that doesn’t translate to this guy getting a free pass to cop a feel. I’m mentally preparing to give him a dressing down for his highhanded opinion of himself and his sex when I turn to face him and suddenly, I feel like the wind has been knocked out of me. 

Peeta. 

I’d put myself out on a limb giving him my number like that and he hasn’t even bothered to call. Not twenty four hours ago, I had been excited at the prospect of seeing him, of getting to know him better; now there’s a rush in my ears and my pride has me anxious to escape. 

I get a thrill of satisfaction when my glare makes him release his hold on me, as though suddenly singed. He rubs the back of his neck with one hand and he’s can’t look me in the eyes, but I’m stuck in a noiseless void where my fight or flight reaction overrides my other senses. Despite not hearing his exact words, I’ve calmed down enough to see the apology clearly in his bright blue eyes. With my hands full, my only recourse is to shake my head at him. Peeta stops short of continuing his excuses and I muster up a reassuring smile to put him at ease; it’s something I’ve used with clients countless times and I’m pleased to see its effect when the rigidness in Peeta’s stance dissipates. Before he can muster up something to say, I lift my drink laden hands and put him out of his misery, “I’m here with a friend or I’d wait to hear why you haven’t called.” Even grimacing he’s attractive and I continue quickly before he can try to explain, “Good night, Peeta.” I don’t wait for him to return the sentiment. I know that it’s better to make a clean break and yet the stab of disappointment I feel as Peeta allows me to walk away is disconcerting.

I hope the crowd I’m trying to navigate without any additional spillage has obscured my friend’s view of the exchange with Peeta. I try to harness my feelings before I reaching the booth, but when I arrive at the edge of the people milling about, some remnant of them must show on my face because I’m on the receiving end of a critical stare from Madge. Quickly deciding that it’s my best option, I merely shrug in response and silently hand her one of the pint glasses. I reclaim my spot across from her and pointedly ignore the raised eyebrow that my minimal response elicits.

Patience might be something I utilize in my profession, but it’s not a strong suit of mine when it comes to my personal life. Even knowing that Madge is probably using this particular flaw to her advantage right now, I can feel my irritation mounting. I raise my glass in a silent toast and brace myself as my glass joins hers on the table. I know that only the truth will be enough to satisfy her. Madge knows me too well for anything less to suffice; she’s always been able to tell when I’m not being entirely honest. It’s another area where my proficiency depends on whether I’m practicing it in the personal or professional realm. 

I’m surprised when Madge smiles mildly over the table at me and for a moment I think she might let it drop, perhaps trusting that if it were important I would mention it on my own. For anyone else, being interested in someone wouldn’t be that important, but if I’m honest with myself, I know that it is meaningful and I should tell her about it. That’s right, give me enough time and I can get there on my own. 

As with everything else, Madge must be able to see my reluctance to address the topic on my mind because she cleverly averts her gaze to make it the tiniest bit easier for me to bear. I can hear her question in the inflection of her voice when she says, “He’s cute.” 

How kind of her to allow me to choose what to divulge in this moment. I glance over at the bar where I can just spot the back of Peeta’s golden head and I concede the point easily because anyone can see the truth in it, “He is.” The silent encouragement I see when I turn back to her has me continuing quickly, “We sat next to each other on the flight here. He’s one of the Mellark’s sons; he and his older brother are helping out at the café, giving their parents a break or something.”

“Oh, yeah, I think I heard something about that.” She nods and takes a quick drink in a way that I’m all too familiar with, “I thought maybe he or some guy at the bar had bothered you or something.”

Trying to reassure her, I insist, “No, nothing happened.” I don’t need the way that her eyebrows reach her equally fair hairline to tell me I missed the mark. I can’t quite strangle the groan that makes its way from my throat and I rest my head in my hands a moment later, anything to avoid looking at her in this moment. “It’s Gale; he’s at the bar,” I admit, my voice is coming out on the edge of a whine and it’s a relief when Madge looks that way. I go on before the embarrassment can stop me and once I start, I can’t make myself stop; I tell her everything. “I know I’m going to have to talk to him, of course, but I really wasn’t planning on doing it tonight. I thought I would have more time! Not that I haven’t had plenty of time to think about what I want to say to him when we finally hashed things out, but I just told Prim to give him the green light this morning. I haven’t been able to mentally prepare! It’s important that I have advanced warning because I really don’t want to lose it this time. The last time we were alone together I was a complete wreck and I cannot revisit that moment - I cannot afford to go back there, I have to stay in the present and remember why we’re finally having a civil conversation about this mess.” I throw my hands up at the end of my rant and they thud lifelessly back onto the table.

Madge smiles benignly at me in spite of my outburst. “Happy to get that off you chest?” 

I give an emphatic nod and take a much needed drink from my glass before continuing, “I can never explain it properly to Prim without putting her in the middle or making her feel like she has to take sides. Gale and I need to clean up our own mess in order to be able to truly move past ... everything.” I sigh and push the long piece of fringe that’s fallen in front of my eyes back until it catches behind my ear, “I’ve been hung up on it for long enough and I think I might be ready to actually move on.”

“Really?” My friend looks as uncertain of my conviction as she sounds and, while I appreciate the fact that we haven’t talked about it recently, I can only laugh at her presumption that Gale is the reason for my being single.

“Yes, Madge, really.” She still doesn’t convinced. “I don’t want Gale; I haven’t wanted him for a long time.” I knew people were going to be wary of the truth and it’s up to me to convince them. I sigh before trying again, “I mean, at first I thought that if he would just apologize that we could move past it, you know? But I’ve realized, admittedly with a great deal of professional help, that when people leave it’s not my fault.” I look down at my pint and idly draw patterns in the condensation there as I softly reveal the crucial point, one that took months of intense therapy for me to put the traitorous thought into words, “It’s not because I wasn’t good enough.” 

When I see her hand wrap around my wrist, I return to the present moment, shaking my head to stop her from saying anything, “Obviously there were issues I needed to work through after Gale did ... what he did,” I flip my hand over and give hers a squeeze, “I couldn’t even consider starting an actual relationship with someone - you remember how I was back then! Do you think I could have handled that?” I give her a meaningful look and only see the sadness covering my friend’s typically bubbly personality deepen; that was obviously the wrong way to go about reassuring her, so I try yet again. “I needed that time to be a little reckless - it was college! We both had our bit of fun and it’s time for me to move on and find someone else. Besides,” I add flippantly, “I’m sure Gale has; why shouldn’t I?”

If anything, Madge looks worse and I really can’t think of anything else I can say to reassure her. Except, she doesn’t look like she needs reassurance anymore; she reminds me of a guilty client who needs to unburden themselves. Given enough time, they usually do. 

“Speaking of Gale ...” My attention rests solely on Madge who in turn can’t look me in the eye for more than a second. She keeps looking back in the direction of the bar, over to the corner where I know Gale is sitting. 

Instinct tells me that I’m not going to like what I’m about to hear, but she’s my best friend. I try to reason that Madge wouldn’t want to purposefully hurt me and it will be better to know whatever it is before I meet with Gale alone. She looks concerned which doesn’t make sense. I just finished telling her that I’m over Gale, that should make her feel better! 

Madge tightens her grip on my hand and I focus my wandering thoughts on the conversation at hand. She doesn’t say anything right away and I match the pressure as we sit there with our clasped hands resting on the table until I can hardly stand it. I’m about to prompt her when the words burst from her, her voice laced with trepidation, “We’ve kind of been seeing each other.”

Wait, what? That certainly wasn’t what I expected her to say. I start instinctually pulling away from her, shaking my head as if to clear it and straightening my posture toward the back of my seat, away from her. Just as I’m about to pull it away, the unavailing pressure of her grip practically cuts off the circulation in my hand.

“No, that’s not true; let me explain: we aren’t together or dating.” My gaze snaps to hers instantly, but it leaves with her next word, “Yet.” I’m not sure how I’m supposed to react to this because I’ve only just decided to put everything firmly in the past and this is putting an unexpected wrench in that plan. 

In an obvious attempt to prevent me retreating even further, Madge starts explaining rapidly, “Gale works at my father’s company. His position might be lower-level, but even the grunts get an invitation to the holiday party. I only went to appease Daddy - you know? - because he’s always pushing me to have a more public role in the company and we bumped into each other there.” Okay, that scenario makes sense. I know all too well about the lack of young people at company parties and it would make sense for them to gravitate to each other because they had been sort of friends through their connection to me.  “After that, we ran into each other in the cafeteria and started having lunch pretty regularly which led to us spending time together outside of work. Beyond that, nothing has happened.” 

My hand is now inextricably linked with hers and I’m worried by the ‘yet’ that remains unspoken this time. “I couldn’t let anything happen until I talked to you - and Gale agreed - that it was a good idea to wait to make sure that it wouldn’t ruin our friendship. You are so important to me, Katniss, I don’t want to jeopardize us over some guy! Especially someone who was so important to you and who hurt you so badly.” I flinch and her free hand covers the top of mine to distract from the flash of that pain I always feel when the subject is brought up. “Just say the word and I’ll tell Gale that friendship is all I can offer him; it’s what I told him you would say, but after what you just said about being ready to move on - I thought that maybe, that I might be wrong.” 

Madge looks imploringly at me as her words hang in the air between us. I’m not sure what she expects me to say at this point. She’s been spending time with my ex-boyfriend - not just that, my ex-best friend - in an obvious build up to romance. Given both the way they agreed with each other about stuff in high school and their individual experiences with monogamous relationships, if they start a relationship it’s likely to last. He would be a shadow, a silent presence in every interaction I had with my friend sitting across from me, but cutting back her role in my life is simply not possible. Frankly, I don’t have a lot of friends and there’s no way that I can afford to lose one as important to me as Madge. 

Sure, I’ve thought about Gale moving on, but it’s always been in the abstract; I definitely hadn’t predicted that it would affect me in any personal way beyond hearing about him and whoever he ended up with when I visited or spoke to Prim. We’ve managed to keep tabs on each other over the years through our younger siblings and, once the wedding takes place, I thought we would continue in this vein. Up until this moment, I didn’t see any reason things should change on my part. It appears that I’m going to have to reevaluate the situation. 

“I think,” I say slowly, “I’m gonna need something stronger than a snakebite if we’re actually going to talk about this and in the time it takes for me to get that, I’ll be processing this turn of events.” Just as slowly, Madge releases her grip on my hand, nods and lets me leave the booth without further complaint. 

I make my way toward the bar through a haze of shock. Of course I’ve considered hearing that Gale was seeing someone; it’s been four years! With him being such a family oriented guy, it makes sense for Gale to find someone he could settle down with, but I thought he would think twice before pursuing my best friend! Especially considering that it’s the position he held even before we got together. He wouldn’t even know her if it weren’t for me! As social outcasts, Madge and I gravitated to each other in high school and we became friends; it was out of necessity at the beginning, but it evolved into a meaningful friendship. I was the one who introduced her to Gale, an upperclassman. The three of us had spent a lot of our free time together back then. 

I take a deep breath as I finally reach the bar, thankful to have something to lean on. It’s more crowded this time, giving me an extra bit of time before I must turn around and face the situation head on. The majority of my thoughts are telling me that I really have no reason to be upset; the situation hardly has anything to do with me, really. The part of me that has been struggling to overcome the past is the same, albeit small, part of me that feels a sting of betrayal at not being told about this new development before now. Before it had time to become an issue of her withholding something so important from me. Surely someone would have noticed and word gotten back to me if they had taken whatever it is they have going on public. At least they’ve spared me that bit of humiliation; however, the way Thresh had assumed I was here with one of them has me wondering if that is really the case. 

They seem to have divided the bar in half which means that another bartender comes to take my order this time. Brushing aside the slight disappointment I feel at not being given the opportunity to question Thresh about his offhand comment from earlier, I order and immediately take a shot of vodka. Tapping my fingers on the bar while I wait for a basic martini with the same base, I hear my name, “Katniss?” The question is inherent in his tone and I’ve spent enough time ruminating on it over the last few days that I don’t need the quick glance over my shoulder to tell me that Peeta has cautiously approached me. Apparently he didn’t get closure from our earlier conversation; if I hadn’t just received such an emotional curveball, I might have been pleased by his approach. 

“Katniss,” he sounds more confident when he says it this time, “If you have time, I’d like a chance to explain.”

It surprises me that he actually waits for my permission to elaborate. I make a sweeping gesture with my hand which he takes as an invitation to ease into the infinitesimal space between me and the next guy at the bar. If it hadn’t felt cramped already, it certainly does now. The heat coming off Peeta seems to pass through my blazer as if it were nothing and I feel a blush rise under my collar as my body responds to being in close proximity to such a potent male presence. Standing this close to me, I’m can’t decide where to focus. The way he’s leaning his forearm on the bar is putting the muscle definition beneath the edge of his black shirtsleeve on display, the light dusting of hair visible between the sides of the v-neck shirt shines golden under the cast off neon light from the beer signs on the wall leading to the taut muscles of his neck and the jaw that is compressing his lips together in a straight line. The lips that have inspired a number of daydreams since we first met. When I reach them, I can’t meet his crystalline eyes for more than a second, worried that he’ll see something of my sexual frustration in my eyes.   

Thankfully he doesn’t draw attention to my inability to control my mind and gaze from wandering, instead Peeta continues as though I haven’t just blatantly checked him out, “I didn’t want to seem desperate by calling too soon.” That seems reasonable enough, but the way that he keeps shifting his weight tells me that there’s more he wants to say on the subject. When it doesn’t seem to be forthcoming, I choose to give him until my martini arrives in front of me to give me reason enough to stay beyond that point. 

“I saw the name of your firm on the card, and I, uh, looked it up.” He registers my shock and immediately raises his hands in appeal, “Just their website, I swear!” I must look as unconvinced as I am because he rushes to explain further, “I was curious about the type of work you do! We didn’t get into that on the plane and I wanted to make sure I could talk to you about your job without sounding like a complete idiot.” He rubs his neck and breaks eye contact before muttering, “And I might have read your bio on their website.”

“A bit dry, huh?” I grimace when he nods. That bio is merely a list of facts about my undergrad and law school education and my transition from student intern to associate lawyer after passing the bar exam. Just like everyone else’s biographical blurb on the site, it contains only academic and professional accomplishments that are meant to inform clients about our qualifications and ability, both individually and as a firm, to handle potential cases. Despite the mounting irritation I feel, I explain, “My boss prefers to keep things as cut and dry as possible until after we accept a case. There’s more to me than my resumé, but if you don’t want to get to know me better - it’s probably better that you didn’t call.”

“No!” The protest bursts from Peeta’s mouth and I swear that the general din of the bar lessens at the sound of his vehemence. I look around nervously, the added attention that an altercation might bring is the last thing I want to handle right now. The pressure of his hand coming to rest on my upper arm shoots the same feeling of pressure to the middle of my chest and I struggle to take a full breath. “No,” Peeta insists more quietly this time. He’s looking into my eyes with the same kind of intent I’ve seen from defendants desperate to be believed. I momentarily give him the benefit of the doubt, relying on a gut feeling that’s saying I’m not quite ready to pass final judgement on him, that I might want to hear what Peeta says next. 

“I didn’t not call you. I just hadn’t called you yet.” His breath comes out in a huff and the hand on my hand raises to rub the back of his neck as he struggles to find the right words to explain himself. Almost immediately, I miss the warmth and the grounding nature that hand gave me, but he continues before I have time to analyze what that could mean. “I guess, I saw the distance in where we’re at in our careers and thought that maybe ...” Peeta shrugs in a helpless way that extinguishes my indignation over the assumption that I would care about that despite knowing about his situation before I’d given him my number yesterday.

“Maybe nothing, Peeta. I don’t appreciate being messed with; you wanted to call and and you should have called. I knew about your job. Why would you let something like that stop you?” I reach out to him this time, disliking the way his shoulders slump even further at my accusation; I gently place my hand on his upper arm hoping to lessen the sting of this rebuke. I wonder what something or someone must have done to cause this man - this charming, funny, passionate and downright gorgeous man standing in front of me to think so lowly of himself. He’s out there following his dream, working towards becoming an executive chef with the hopes of one day achieving his ultimate goal of opening his own restaurant. “We neither of us are defined by what we do; that’s only a small part of who we are despite what my boss’ biography limitations would like you to believe.”

I’ve managed to inject just enough levity into that last part because his posture straightens immediately; I spot the corner of that enchanting mouth turning up and I feel mine do the same. Peeta shrugs sheepishly and looks up at me through his golden lashes. It’s like he knows it was his mind creating obstacles and yet he needs reassurance that my interest in him is genuine before he’ll believe it. Now that he’s standing at his full height, even in my heels he has inches on me, so I square my shoulders and look up into his eyes for the first time tonight. They really are devastating.

“Everything okay, Catnip?”

God, just what I didn’t need to complicate things further tonight. My hand falls limply to my side and I allow myself a moment to close my eyes and take a deep breath before turning around. Facing Gale, I’m having trouble thinking about anything other than his growing relationship with my best friend; instead, I try to fixate on his use of that dreaded nickname, but I just feel tired. “Not now, Gale,” I tell him, shaking my head and gesturing in the air between us, “I’m really not in the right frame of mind for all of this.” 

I glimpse movement in my periphery before I feel the warmth of a body standing closely behind mine. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to count on solidarity from anyone other than Prim because as I’m finding tonight, loyalty is changeable for everyone except when it comes to family. Peeta is literally covering my back and I choose not to analyze it. It feels good to not be standing alone.

Gale chooses to ignore the man standing close behind me saying, “Thresh said that there was some guy bothering you over here,” he makes a gesture towards Peeta, “I wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

“Yes, Gale, yes!” I cross my arms in an effort to not fly completely off the handle, “I’m not being bothered and, not that it’s any of your business, he’s not just some guy, okay?” I close my eyes in mortification; I’m flustered and it’s hard to think clearly when the closeness of the bar atmosphere has increased tenfold standing between these two men. All of a sudden I feel warmth pass through my layers of clothing at the small of my back; it takes me a moment to realize that Peeta has placed his hand there in a tangible show of his support. Apparently the move is impossible to ignore for Gale, now glaring at him over my shoulder, which does nothing to improve my mood. I don’t care to think about why I decided to say that of all the things and, instead of trying to clarify the situation, I choose to allow Gale to draw his own conclusions. He’ll have been aware that I was meeting Madge here and that she was either planning on saying something from the start or agreed to divulge their evolving relationship if the opportunity arose.

“Everything okay, guys?” 

A short laugh expresses my disbelief. It’s as though she had no sooner entered my mind than she appeared, looking worried. She seems unable to decide what concerns her more: her boyfriend and I standing off or the fact that we’re in the middle of a very full, very public bar in our very small town. Neither of us are known for keeping a handle on our easily provoked tempers. 

Gale finally looks away from where Peeta and I are standing, I do the same just in time to catch the way the tension in her shoulders eases when their eyes meet. Even if I were unaware of it, the undercurrent of a connection thrums between them. Seeing their intuitive responses tells me that it’s entirely too soon for me to be faced with the picture they present.

My breath comes out of a huff, “It’s fine, Madge,” I say,  “But I’ve had enough for tonight.” And I know they recognize that I’m not talking about the alcohol I’ve consumed thus far. Reaching into my pocket, I throw a wad of cash onto the bar. I know that I’ll have to revisit the subject again soon, but not tonight. Instead, I need time to figure out exactly how I feel about this development, once the shock passes, without either of them trying to sway me in their favor. 

As I make my way to the bar’s entrance, I hear a version of my own thoughts spoken aloud by a man that seems too good to be true. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been working on an update for this story for ages. I'm crossposting it in the hopes that a little encouragement can go a long way. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think!


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